by Gianfranco Menghini
Enchantment in a summer early morning…
In Corsica, a small minority claims the independence from France, its own language and modus vivendi. Some islanders were o by most of the population completely and convincingly integrated with the motherland. This book points out certain situations and anomalies, which have been a comparison to the reality.The story begins with the arrival in Corsica of a small team formed by an elderly journalist, a photographer and two beautiful models for a photo service on behalf of an important Italian magazine.The main protagonist is the journalist who, by some strange influences received from an extra-terrestrial entity in the wood, in which he has spent the night, which appeared to him at dawn and penetrated in his body, modifying his reasoning. In fact, he becomes the champion of the good part of the Corsican people who feel himself French and do not want absolutely the independence to the island as some lawless groups claim, wanting to force to their decisions the central government with attempt’s blowing of villas and buildings owned by foreigners. He will be transformed by a vicious man, falling into the old age, into a much younger guy, burning with passion, as well as towards the two beautiful models, also in favor of the tranquility of the Corsicans fond of France.It will also be insensitive to gunshots, with the thought will manage to move from one place to another and in spending the money which will come back in his wallet… Breathtaking adventures in the gorgeous, landscapes of the island of beauty with a mystery book ending.
Read an excerpt from the book
I must imagine immediately those strange crystals, polished to reflect even the slightest brightness and variegated by a myriad of colors, could not then represent something magical or at least something not verifiable in nature or, rather, of which I had never had an although minimal knowledge. Their shapes of parallelepipeds with their pentagonal upwards points, put me in alert so much that, although intrigued in seeing all of three hammered at the foot of an old oak tree in that sea of firs and pines whose trunks stood out straight towards a golden sky since the first lights of dawn, I stared at them, fascinated. They took advantage of every little glimmer of light and how transmitted it, sending luminous and caressing blades to illuminate my face, as if they would invite me to gather or, anyway, to touch them. I still had the confused ideas, and I could not connect well on what had happened to me the night before. Of one thing, I was certain: I slept in that immense wood in the silent whistling of leaves, on a bed made of a pile of pine needles, brown and crisping. I was alone, angry but, above all, intimidated that a wild animal could take advantage of my sleep. Sleep that I had fought for most of the night, ruminating on my darkest thoughts, but, which had won me when, tired and disheartened, I had curled up myself under a triptych of trees, strangely grown next to each other to form an unlikely barrier which had given me the illusion of being protected at least to behind. I had promised myself to be alert, keeping the eyes closed with the intent of reopening them every two minutes to take a glance around before closing them again. However, that exercise, if I remember correctly, had had a short duration, since at the end I had not managed to reopen them, plunging into a heavy and dreamless sleep. Even though I was distracted by that unusual vision, the last events were re-emerging to my mind back in the time, like a slow motion which would project the images to me, turning toward the rear quickly.The place where I did part of the forest which from the Col di Vergio comes quickly towards the sea and extends itself as far as the eye can see, in a heap of infinite green vaults, sharp and roundish, up to the indistinguishable Gulf of the Girolata. I have arrived in Corsica just that morning, accompanied by a photographer, a friend of mine and two beautiful models, to perform a photo service on behalf of a women’s magazine which, further dealing with the fashion, illustrated every week a new holiday destination.And I, as a globetrotter journalist as I always have been, above all, for the passion that I have constantly felt for this beautiful island and on behalf of part of its inhabitants acquainted some years ago and among whom I counted some stable friendships, have been invited to join the trio, officially to write a nice piece to put to the edge of the magnificent photos that George should do but, in effect, to make the guide in an area I knew by heart. “Come on!” Marisa, the director of the magazine, hand told me amiably, “you’ll go to entertain you in your loved Corsica and, maybe, have fun with those beautiful girls. You’ve always complained to never to grant yourself a vacation and this time I offer you the opportunity to do it on your favorite island. All paid and with a ten million fee which, for only seven-day jobs, does not seem me a little thing …””But if I just came back from China …” I’ve objected, but not very convincingly. The offer was tempting; moreover, I should make a wide tour for Corsica with Giorgio, who became one of my best friends after three long journeys for so many reports, which had caused quite a stir in times when many people in Italy did not even know about the malnutrition of entire populations and of the abandonment, with consequent exploitation, of millions of children. Furthermore, for my friend, that assignment should be a prize-trip like mine, after having risked his life with a troupe of Austrians in an expedition in the Amazon proved itself, contrary to the forecasts, more dangerous than expected.The dampness of the night made my joints creak when I tried hard to get me up and must teach me on a tree, slipping slightly on the pine needle carpet and lightly bumping against my head against the corky bark of the trunk, which made me fall the glasses.Yeah! I must consider that, as a man, I was not much anymore. Fifty-eight years old, further badly and with the sight which did not focus more closely. That had been also one of the reasons why I had polemized with Giorgio the evening before, when going out of the little inn where we were lodged, venturing myself into the wilderness, thanks to the heat of mid-July and the clear night, in addition illuminated by the full moon.Of medium stature, however, I had, though, thin legs, which could not stand enough the weight of a body that had become disproportionate for the fat and a prominent stomach, a clear result of my bad eating habits. Since I had stopped smoking at forties, obliged by the doctor with the warning that, if I had not done it as soon as possible, I should be myself seriously ill, I had retreated on the food, of which I had become a pleasure-lover after an existence passed to nibble. Never I would do a full meal and even, between a taste and another. I lit a cigarette. My liver must swell itself to the excess and every little effort I did, caused me to pant. The hair, which I wore long since they had become thin enough, have turned…